


hac Amor hac Liber

by Elenchus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble Collection, Gen, Grantaire/every Ami, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-18 15:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/pseuds/Elenchus
Summary: Grantaire romances Les Amis de l'ABC (or perhaps vice versa).Friendship, love, and intimacy, in eight drabbles and one double-drabble.





	hac Amor hac Liber

Grantaire imagines that if he could kiss Paris, it would be something like kissing Laigle. His mouth tastes like her brilliant joys, her wild gambles, her long days and longer nights of friendship and wine and good cheer. He sparkles even when silent, and his tongue is clever in every occupation.

“I don’t understand you in the least, but I like it a great deal,” Laigle says when Grantaire explains.

“Perhaps if I kiss you again I’ll be able to explain it better. Experience is ever a teacher to art.” Granatire waggles his eyebrows for full effect, and Laigle laughs.

 

* * *

 

Joly speaks energetically, hands moving to illustrate his speech. “It all comes down to anatomy, really. I have top marks in anatomy; I can name you every bodily member in French, Latin, German, and Italian, backwards and forwards, and tell you what each does and why. I don’t know why we’re having this debate; of course a medical student makes for a superior lover.”

Bossuet makes a supportive noise from Joly’s lap, where he is resting his head. “Quite superior, my dear.”

Grantaire, who knows exactly why they are having this debate (having started it himself) merely says, “Prove it.”

 

* * *

 

Bahorel’s laugh is a force of nature, a thunderous roar that fills the room with good cheer. He laughs as he swings at one assailant while nimbly dodging another, laughs as he pulls Grantaire out of the path of a barstool aimed at his head. He’s still laughing as he and Grantaire stumble outside into an alley, where Grantaire pushes him up against the nearest wall.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Grantaire asks, too exhilarated and short of breath to manage sarcasm.

“We _ll_ ,” drawls Bahorel, “let’s find out.”

His kiss is as wild as his laugh, and as infectious.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire throws an arm and most of a shoulder across Courfeyrac’s chest, angling for maximum comfort. Courfeyrac gives him a halfhearted shove.

"Up, you thief of blankets, you sack of hot wine and hotter air. I’ve places to be."

Grantaire says something extremely rude into the pillow.

 "I’m a busy man. I have to join Monsieur T- at Madame F-'s salon, or else I’ll miss all the gossip about Lord M-'s mistress," Courfeyrac complains.

Grantaire moves his head to lazily kiss the side of Courfeyrac’s neck, and directs the offending arm downwards.

Courfecyrac never does learn about Lord M-'s mistress.

 

* * *

 

"I’m afraid I’ve already got plans for tonight," Feuilly tells Grantaire. He’s carrying several books in his arms, idly tapping the spines as he talks. Grantaire watches Feuilly’s hands with interest. "I’d meant to read some Mickiewicz, but you could come practice Greek with me first."

Grantaire sketches an elaborate bow, and Feuilly, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. "I humbly accept. Is that a no to other, ah, more athletic Greek endeavors?"

 Feuilly’s tiny smile would be easy to miss, were Grantaire not watching for it. "Maybe we’ll review affirmation and denial after we best the aorist."

 

* * *

 

Prouvaire blows out a puff of smoke, settling his head back on Grantaire’s lap. The air is hazy, and so is Grantaire.

"Tell me a story," says Prouvaire dreamily. "A story about someone you love."

"Once there was a fellow named Jehan Prouvaire…"

Prouvaire swats Grantaire’s thigh playfully. "No, you goose, I already know that one."

Grantaire switches to English, a weak point of Prouvaire’s. "My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun," he begins, in grandiose tones.

Prouvaire laughs softly. He kisses the inside of Grantaire’s thigh – light, and almost chaste. “Liar,” he says, affectionately, and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre unrolls the scroll tenderly, carefully, and lays it out on the table. Grantaire traces the dance of constellations and planets across the paper with his eyes.

"Of course, it’s nothing important. Merely a hobby." Combeferre sounds almost shy, hesitant as a man discussing his secret lover. "But – if you wished –  you might come with me tonight and help me add to it."

Grantaire swallows past a lump in his throat. He does not care to explain what it is doing there. “I suppose I can keep an eye on your heavens for you, and make sure they don’t wander.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Grantaire sees as he opens his eyes is his own face, looking back at him from a puddle in the street. For a moment he imagines playing Narcissus, leaning down to kiss his double. Perhaps he’d fall in after it and land in a mirror world.

"You’ve the right idea," Grantaire tells his reflection. "There are no headaches where you are. Nothing but peace, quiet, and the heavens to gaze upon at your leisure."

Grantaire shifts slightly, and his face disappears. The puddle is full of reflected stars, radiant and luminous.

Grantaire swears and splashes the water.

 

* * *

 

“There’s been trouble in the outer districts. We’ll need a man to stand watch until matters settle. Perhaps we’ll find new brothers in arms.” Enjolras directs his men around the map like pieces in a master chess game. The candlelight illuminates his features with an eerie glow, giving him the look of something not quite human. A phoenix, perhaps, who will rise again from the ashes no matter how many times he burns. Grantaire could believe that.

"Enjolras," Grantaire calls out. The name is sweet as honey on his tongue. "What is the nature of man? Is it a grand and noble thing, or a sorry failure?"

Enjolras turns the full force of his attention to Grantaire, pinning him with his gaze. His faith shines bright as Phoebus, and puts the candles to shame. "Not always grand," says Enjolras, "but good. A promissory note to happiness. It is tomorrow."

Grantaire sighs in contentment and settles back in his chair. He smiles at Enjolras; Enjolras nods in solemn acknowledgement and turns back to his work.

Grantaire sets aside his drink and watches Enjolras plan for his tomorrow. It is good. It is enough. His heart sings with the echoes of belief.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Propertius, Elegy 1.3.


End file.
